


Widowmaker: Shadow's Tether

by IAmAStand



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cockfucking, F/F, Horses, Hyperism, Mpreg, Orgasm Denial, Other, Post Mpreg, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmAStand/pseuds/IAmAStand
Summary: Just can't stop thinking about Widowmaker.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The Talon stable.

More accurately Dr. O’Deorain’s stable, as the equine beasts housed here could not serve for Talon in field operations, her intelligent stallions the focus of a whimsical, side project.

The immensely-high-ceilinged room of the terrorist compound held twenty-four “stalls” within two of its purple-plated walls, bright light panels high in the roof and flat against the wall illuminating the expansive enclosure. Twenty-three of Moira’s genetically modified males remained stationed in their secured closets, taking in vitamin and mineral fluids, constant injections, and edible stimulants. One, per the geneticist’s order, stood without his stall after Amélie Lacroix opened his confines, allowed to wander across the large room; O’Deorain projected that he would give birth very soon. The pitch black, wild-maned stud bore beefy muscle and absolute size to outshine even a particularly high-bred shire horse, luxurious hair that required no maintenance, but especially the consciousness to strategize and best utilize his life-ending strength, snuffing the high-strung instinct of panic without ever needing to be broken from it, rank with greasy, peppered masculine cologne.

The gargantuan beast clopped slowly and gently upon the textured, hard floor, aimlessly swaying his massive, foal-stuffed gut mere inches from kissing the purple flooring, the blade of hair running down the center of his belly occasionally picking up strands of hay. At the rear end of his painfully gravid body, below his nervously swatting tail, his plump, onyx sheath smashed tightly between his pregnancy and the tautness of his black scrotum, his ten-gallon-barrel-sized testes pulling the thin sack down to his ankles, blaring his weighty, violent, caulk-thick cum with just the slightest jostle; it had been four months since he last climaxed, dumping his impossibly copious, searing-hot load all across the steel floor when his father pissed their fiery cables of molten pearl through his shitring, gobbling down every giant’s stein of rowdy, surefire-virile, fat swimmers. Every day he lamented not taking more, not coaxing his father to fuck him again before the baby took hold, desperate to have his sire’s eight-foot length plunge into him balls-deep and nut inside over and over. For four months, he badly longed to shove his own enormous girth into his brothers and their fathers, becoming especially excited at the idea of mounting his own dad, his heart racing at the prospect of performing as Widowmaker had; taking one of his fellow equine’s twelve-inch-girthed maleness into his throat.

He missed the raging heat and smell, their fucking and obese jizzum creating heatwaves within their stable, the saturation, nostrils raped deep, bottomed-out into their lungs by the intensified, fruity and salty body odors, foul piss, meaty and spicy cum, acrid sweat streaming down their testicles.

A moan rumbled from the dark male’s neck, the twin foals within him stirring restlessly, the intense movements rippling through his flesh and faintly knocking upon his melon-big prostate, one hoof scraping the metal beneath him in dire need to be penetrated again.

Sombra would not bother resisting the combined image of fertility and virility seducing her, the gigantically-with-child stud bouncing his belly and saggy, Mjolnir-heavy, charcoal nuts around, winking his obsidian turdcutter when it wasn’t obscured by his tail. The Talon hacker had read Moira’s message to Amélie before it even reached the assassin, accompanying the long-legged Frenchwoman to the stable in attire she commissioned just for the two of them.

Matching matte black, high-collar, leather jackets, unzipped and sleeves bunched up to the elbows, the back embroidered in such immaculate detail to easily be mistaken for a painting. Under Olivia’s jacket, its back designed with an image of her locking eyes with anyone to gaze upon the artwork, her purple-glowing-tipped, seal brown hair styled to one side of her shaved scalp, throating all but five inches of a slate blue-skinned woman’s seven-inch-wide colon cobra, one fingerless-gloved hand hefting and squeezing firm enough against a melon-fat ball for its meat to spill out between her digits, encircled by a border created with the names ‘SOMBRA’ underneath and ‘WIDOWMAKER’ above, the immodest operative wore a bodysuit. Black cloth formed sleeves from the wrists of her technologically-nailed, gloved hands and terminating where arm met shoulder, connected to each other via a strap running across her shoulder blades and another sat atop caramel GG-cups, the two sagless mammaries’ bistre-dark, thumb-thick nipples hidden underneath the continued cloth descending from the sleeves and over her ribs. The fabric thinned downward against Sombra’s enormously fertile thighs and decuple-thicc booty like the straps of a garter, enlarging into stockings above her knees and ending as stirrups against the arch of her soles.

Her exposed heel and electric-bright-polished toenails remained perfectly visible through her utterly transparent running shoes, as if fashioned from crystal-clear glass.

*PLAP*! Soft skins collided over the breathless music of tender, lubricated flesh squeaking, sputtering, slurping, urinating.

A firm, oxygen-starved palm struck Colomar’s globe-shattering ass cheek, plunging into the shelf-like sphere of fat and muscle, tossing large ripples across the Mexico-born agent and causing her cheeks to wobble side to side. Sombra held onto Widowmaker’s wrist-swollen nipples, one in each fist, struggling to look the emotionless sniper in their golden, disdainful eyes, but the artillery barrage of pleasure striking white-hot, truck tire-girthed lightning up her body and ringing through her brain whipped her nerves and muscles into chaos, rolling her neck, eyelids fluttering, oculars crossing, tendons in her breed-begging booty, thighs, and abdomen tensing, her half- braided, white light-streaked, blue hair swinging and brushing across the sides and back of her buzzed scalp, luminescent-painted, Greek toes curling and splaying. She grit her teeth, spit grunts, whispered whining, rumbled moans, throat endlessly issuing wordless approval of her fellow operative’s indulgement.

Lacroix stood toward her needy friend’s front, towering form bent at the knees of her mile-tall legs. Her usually dwarfing stature enhanced by one of the three gifts Olivia presented this day: fifteen-inch, platform heels, possessing not a single strap yet secured to her soles as if by powerful adhesive, just as glass-pane-transparent as Sombra’s sneakers, leaving her immaculate, long, Russian violet-nail-polished, Roman feet completely appreciable. Beyond the black cloth stirrups hugging her mauve-pale arches. Amélie’s bodysuit, Sombra’s second gift, could not be considered much of a bodysuit, forming stirrup stockings much as Colomar’s does and ending there in similarity. The dark fabric continued only up the cold-blooded assassin’s waspish hips via thin straps, snaking up, behind, then over the shelf of her muscled-hoarded, violet butt cheeks and joining into a single, spine-width cloth, climbing up to cease as a full-neck choker.

Prized amongst the three presents, the stylish jacket performing fuck-all to contain Widowmaker’s buoyant ZZZ-cups, the two rocket-shaped cockpillows jutting forward, naturally maintaining a canyonous cleavage almost as lightless as her twelve-inch-deep bootymeat. ‘WIDOWMAKER’ and ‘SOMBRA’ again comprised the circular border of the embroidery on Lacroix’s jacket, but rather than Olivia sucking off the sniper’s titanic cock, the depiction consists of a muscle-bound, well-endowed minotaur’s legs and arm-cradled, pregnant belly lying to the left and a twin to the right. At the center, finely, painstakingly detailing eye color, hair under subtle lighting, finger and toe nail polishes, contrast of palms and soles to caramel and violet skins, stood Lacroix, scalp to sole, nude in all her mega-hung, hourglass aphrodiety, lidded, deadpan expression captured one-one, with an also nude Sombra, hugged within Widowmaker's left arm. The bronze-skinned hacker's back turned to showcase her enormous, jello dumper, Amélie's relatively dainty, open hand resting on top of her right cheek's shelf, looking over her shoulder with a relaxed smirk. The letters 'S T U D' trimmed from the remnants of the sharpshooter's pelvic mane.

Purely coincidence Lacroix had her spine-length, purple-tinged, raven locks trimmed and permed into a large afro, obscuring her widow's peak hairline but increasing her absurdly fertile and soaring silhouette another seven inches.

The statuesque virility goddess thrust her wide hips forward. "UHuuuh~!" Olivia cried out, still clutching the grape-toned, massive nipples at the center of Amélie's near-eclipsing areola. The squatting assassin casually tugged her powerful hips back, dragging her four-foot length against the sensitive, pried-open pinkess of Sombra's twenty-four-inch-long cockthroat, scraping her swollen, flared tip across their self-honey-splattered inside, then shoving wholeheartedly through their masculine depths. "AHuuh~!" Plumbing through the hacker's constantly re-closing, peach-fat prostate, bloating one of their cumorb stems at random and punching into the absolute entirety of a grapefruit-thicc nut. "NNNnnh hh hnnngh~!" Widowmaker held onto her Mexican friend's strong but fatty thunder ass, emotionlessly fulfilling her fellow Talon agent's desires.

Sputtering pre squirt out from between Lacroix's unyielding, massive sledge and Colomar's deepthroating steak on another re-entry, all of the violet, heavy cock hilted within stretched girth and pelvis and testicle. "NNnnh~!" The tacky pull back was long, the tall, widowpeaked woman roughly extracting three-fourths of her immense length before throwing all of her solidness back in, her low-swinging, watermelon-large balls wildly jostling and twirling, her right, giant sphere of swimmers dipping just slightly lower than her left. Olivia's maleness began tensing, closing in on a soul-fucking orgasm, four-inch-girthed mucscle wringing against her friend's ruthless, jaw-popping slab, sucking them in when they fucked inside her.

Per her thorough training, Sombra's impending nut tracked to the exact millisecond of Amélie's design, stepping her wide-legged stance in more to the shorter woman's sides and close what little gap remained between them, wrapping her deep cleavage around Olivia's neck, shortening her testicle-fucking strokes until every drawback simply caught her glans against their beat-up knot but still sleeving her length through stem and filling up a ball, mixing, stirring, tossing the noisy, thickening cum sloshing and boiling to be hurled loose.

"NNNngha~! FFffff! UUUh~! Nnngh~! NNNNH~! HHh~! FFFU~CK! FFU~CK! FFU~CK! FFFU~CK! FU~CK! MEE~! UUUH~! Mmmmh~! Papi! Papi! PAPI! I'm 'bout t' NUT, PAPI! PAPI, I'M FINNA NU~T! ¡JODERME ARRIBA, PAPI!"

A handful of seconds stretched on like a minute, Lacroix coolly rutting through Colomar's tender guts, her calm gaze fixed on their fluctuating expressions and spasming muscles all screaming to vigorously seed wherever their cock aimed.

Widowmaker reaffirmed her hold on Sombra's gargantuan booty cheeks, releasing her splayed-finger grip away from the pliant globes spilling through her digits, flexing her arms' muscles, biceps bulging and clawed palms spanking hard to grasp and pull, thrusting her final stroke-in balls-deep and more, mashing Sombra's abused glans against her smooth, low-oxygen pelvis, firmly plunged all the way deep through their cock, titanium-strong girth and proud cumvein wearing their right stem like an elbow-length glove, docked from end to end within Olivia's sperm-engorged sphere. "AAHAAaahhhh--~!" Amélie dampened her yell of pleasure, the assassin unhanding her left globe of booty to palm the back of Sombra's head, pulling her toward parted, overly-plump, royal purple lips. The ex-gangster, ever-so receptive to Widowmaker, opened her own big, cobalt blue-painted cocksuckers to lock with Amélie’s furious mouth, so wracked with nerve-flogging ecstasy yet dancing her tongue with the taller woman's as they silently bid, swapping each other's clear saliva, throating one another's muscle, opening their mouths further and mashing into each other to take in more of the other, to suck down and mix each other's fluids. Yet Colomar still whined through the intimate "handshake". "Mmmh hmhmhmhmmmm~!"

Her extra large nut hopped mightily in her coffee-dark sack, dragging up to hug and slightly flatten against her internal length, fruit-preserve-viscous ejaculate weightily rising and bubbling, stirring with raging heat that issued a weak aura of steam off the voided, bunched up bottom of her scrotum; her other teste held resolutely in place by Widowmaker's unsympathetic cock. The same massive length and exquisitely fearsome girth keeping Sombra from flying over the edge, instead kept from plunging into core-cracking bliss, the very tip of her toes locking her prone body against the lip of the cliff, the burning, roaring waters below erupting its heat through her, spraying droplets of a climax inside but outside her reach.

The Talon sharpshooter maintained her unfeeling gaze upon her friend through the mouthfucking, her giant rod still as solid as if she had blown the brains out of a target. But she would never empty her cum-leadened balls unless she had murdered; Amélie simply passed the time with Olivia, fucking her fellow operativie's cock and balls at their request, utilizing the needle filled with Dr. O'Deorain's 'BULL' serum while awaiting their arrival.

Five minutes of spit-swapping. Five minutes of Sombra's undocked ball futilely attempting to rocket her thick virility, moaning, crying, grunting into Lacroix's sucking mouth and throat-stirring tongue, both women swallowing a total of a pint of each other's spit. The tattooed widow broke away from the bonding kiss, masterfully registering the precise moment Colomar's nerves began to wind down despite them gritting their teeth between a strained, opened mouth, eyes squeezed shut. "Eeeehh, hsssss, eeeeehhh, hssss."

Even with the sound of fat, hot bubbles rising and slowly popping inside Sombra's extra large nuts, it was safe for the next stage of Amélie’s extraction, slackening her arms to release her grasp on Sombra and letting the limbs fall back to her sides, stepping her still bent-kneed posture back, allowing her swollen cock to pull some of her length free. For two feet, the pre-sloppy music of tacky slurping and syrupy pissing played, steam swaying and dancing off of Widowmaker's exposed tumescence. "Aaaah~!" Sombra's nerves lit up with pleasure once more, pushing her toward the edge she had only just turned away from; Amélie halted when her still blood-taut bellend caught against her friend's thicc cum button.

Eyelids ripped open, Colomar snapped her gaze downward, hissing through a bit button lip, both her heavy nuts jumping once as gallons-large kegs of raw carnality forced themselves up her nerves. Her eyes bounced between Amélie’s enormous, smoking girth and her pulsing, wringing, stretched-open cock, her gummy pre struggling to spurt loose against the cold, too-big intruder brutally lashing Olivia with a devastating arsenal of love. The two stood this way for a dozen seconds, Sombra's full-lunged breathe calming just minutely before Lacroix entertained the hacker a bit more, shaking her hips side to side a little less than gentle.

Colomar's grip on Widowmaker's colossal tits freed, dropped to palm her own squishable, fruitful hips and briefly hiss at the next small assault upon her core, pleasure bolts thunking up her root and weakly thrumming into her skull before she gave a hearty chuckle. "Ay, papi! Si tu no estuvieras siempre en el trabajo, yo podría apreciar mejor que te deshagas de una docena o dos de cuerdas en mi casa. Dos días, solo tú y yo."

Widowmaker said nothing, just staring at her eager, smug friend, wriggling her big hips, stopping, shaking, stopping, gently tugging, then stopping, watching Sombra's sultry emotions drench their face, dragging their incisors over their big, bottom lip with lidded eyes, speaking low coos and moans, softly hissing with a worried brow, letting her jaw drop to gust short exhales. Where Lacroix's hips went, Olivia's cock was made to go.

Sombra's nostrils alcoholically glut on the fumes between her and Amélie. Though mild considering their light play, the two Talon agents' natural funk crept from their oversized balls, bulging, dark pussies, and stubbled pits, wafting from relaxed pores across their fertile figures; sweet and tangy produce drenched over feminine and masculine aromas, addictive and strong, buttery musk bending over and plunging deepest inside rich and bitter perfume, rutting a unique stench for Olivia to crave.

In this lull, the lone horse whinnied strongly, one front hoof scraping harshly against the metal flooring once, his hind hooves heavily clopping hotly behind as his hindquarters lowered, spreading his rear legs for the arriving ordeal, drawing Sombra's snapped attention and Widowmaker's cool regard.

The massively enhanced stud's onyx donut puckered and clenched. "Ppffttssssssss." A gallon of buttery gas escaping as his shitter flexed and opened, rapidly widening to expose his depths, nothing but slime-slick colon two-feet-deep. He shuddered and whinnied again, smaller clops of his hind hooves adjusting for excretion of life. The Talon hacker licked her lips, quickly breathing through her slack mouth, oculars dipping for repeat glances of the black stallion's mega balls resting on the purple plating, both women raptly absorbing the detail of this perversion.

Another, stronger shudder wracked the breeding beast's body, the overeager foals within causing his burdened underside to wobble. Loud snorts issued in quick succession, his visible insides becoming obscured until a greyish-white membrane plugged his pussy. The desperate snorting continued unabated, thicc horse ass shaking while his shithole widened for the foal birth. More of the membrane shat out of him, its contents spasming once, causing the birthing stud to clop and whinny, and whinny again, the widest part of his son stretching his ring out to possess fewer wrinkles, before the encased child slipped out entirely, wetly smacking the floor. Only for the second twin to already be at his brutalized colon's muscle, the head and contorted legs pushing out quicker, but the shoulders catching on the robust animal's too-quickly closing turdcutter.

So close to his goal of a care-free month filled with non-stop splatter-fests of sky-arching, sea-cable-obese, torrid, melted-cheese-thick ropes of savory cum. Father's cum.

The second foal began to spasm, thrashing against the dark stud's meaty ring and striking his constrained prostate, his ginormous, weighty testicles hopping several times, shaking his focus from giving birth, easily excited for carnal gratification. A sideways shake of his rear sealed the deal, dislodging his newborn son to collide upon the plating, barely a second passing before collapsing himself onto his side, sucking and vomiting air.

Hiss and low, metal rumble preceded the door opening for Dr. O'Deorain. Rather than her usual white, second skin suit, the tall redhead donned a stiff, spotlessly-white, wide-shouldered robe, draped in a single, unbroken piece (save the seam down the center of her front) from around her collar to just a centimeter from the floor.

Amélie turned to assess the entry, abruptly yanking her extra large cock out of a distracted Olivia, the quick snatch of swollen knob through the hacker's girth-nursing cum button firing fat, whale cocks of napalmic sex to bloat her nerves, knocking against her sexual core to make it sway and bump around her brain. Sombra's muscles, from toes to head, tensed, paralyzing her for just a second and half, her big nuts jumping and hugging half a dozen times from the shove toward the edge, two-foot-long, pisshole-gapping, caramel cock tugged by tendons to slice up through the air each time she hurled a tongue-thick rope of gummy pre to glue to the rotating and leaving Widowmaker's thigh, hip, skull-swallowing ass crack, and bare heel. The former gangster gasped out an exclamation. "¡Ah, mierdas!"

Each double-clack of her strapless heels fell slowly, unintentionally sensual and calmly paced, Lacroix's path anticipating where Moira would stop inside the stable area. The ruby and sapphire-eyed scientist led six, tall, floating, black coffins, shaped exactly like Amélie's "bed" but triply greater; where a variety of cables would be hooked were instead five intravenous bags, two large ones close to two gallons in size each, the other three collectively well-over one hundred, twenty gallons. All of them shriveled-up empty.

Two Talon combat operatives followed at the end, rifles slung and leisurely behaved.

"Morning, Lacroix." The bass-y, silky Irish women greeted warmly, smiling eyes falling from Widowmaker's golden irises down to their accusatory and threateningly massive, glistening cock. "Making excellent use of my serum?" Small, and brief, ripples pulsed across Moira's robe from her pelvis.

The brainwashed sniper addressed her doctor with the results of a mission, her sultry-yet-callous, husky voice as measured and precise as her aim, drenched in her native accent. "Arousal is sustained at base peak while resting." Where Dr. O'Deorain had stopped, her procession halted behind, but Amélie continued, passing a formal distance, passing a friendly distance, stepping purposely within an intimate space and approaching from her side, standing just a few inches taller than the geneticist and much less than twelve inches between them, the assassin's gently swaying and bobbing, violet cock hovering solid and horizontal before Moira. "Stimulation cannot bypass my default condition."

O'Deorain issued a small hum of confirmation, raising her chin in a half nod, then fluidly dropping her sight back down to Amélie's impressive maleness, her right, long-purple-nailed hand slipping out from the seam of her robe. Her palm gingerly cupped against the assassin's cockbelly, long, clawed fingers closing around the plump cockhead. She gauged Widowmaker's vitals in silence, uncaring of the remnants of Sombra's cockhoney gluing to her hand; her fingers began stroking, pressing against the moistened glans while her gaze scanned toward their base, slowing to take in Lacroix's heartbeat visibly, sluggishly pulsing through her absolutely swollen, 'F'-shaped vein. The redhead's mouth parted slightly in lustful awe.

Her left hand, equally long-nailed, manifest from her robe, her arms now parting her attire to reveal her bare figure beneath, nude-nailed, long, Egyptian feet naked against the metal floor, strong calves below powerful and fatty, thigg thighs that framed her almost flaccid, five-inch-girthed, thirty-inch, hooded cock below an untamed jungle of impenetrable hair that spiked past her bellybutton. Creamy thighs swelled out to overfed goddess proportions, exaggerated by her slightly cinched, athletic belly, pink, small-areola'ed nipples centered upon her round, RR-cup titties. Moira reached under Lacroix, hefting one of their gargantuan cumtanks, rolling the hand-eclipsing sphere in her palm for any measurable quality affected by her BULL chemical, clutching her fingers against the triple-cum-heavy organ. "Mmmm." Again, O'Deorain's cock pulsed, drawing crimson fuel into her kidney puncher. "Notify me if there are any changes in your sex drive." Her right-handed grip tightened, squeezing and more firmly stroking just the oxygen-choked glans, adjusting, then flexing her finger to slide over the lips of Amélie's pisser, strangling her grasp on the large, taut, pre-slickened bell until the flesh began to bulge between her fingers, swiping her finger ceaselessly over the sniper's tip.

Widowmaker's expansive chest rose and fell and again only slightly by her even breathing, the muscles across her smooth, painfully beautiful visage completely relaxed as she observed her Talon doctor succumbing to her innate, prowic virility, her mighty tankards for balls unbothered by the sexual whipping administered to her honey-shiny knob or the long-fingered hand rubbing underneath. Never once drooling even a marble of pre.

Lust-drowsy eyes climbed over Amélie's base and the trunk of her fat vein hugging along the broad top of her girth, passing her hairless pelvis, gripping and stepping along her powerful abdomen, peering down and down the deep, shadowed valley of her naked, sun-blotting jugs, the contours of her collarbone, clothed, long neck, proud and dainty chin, glossy, bee-stung cocksuckers, petite, pointed nose, to stop at gorgeous, apathetic, golden eyes. Moira's finger stopped swiping over the tacky, blood-pumped pisslips, dragging her tip and nail off the bulbous glans then shoving against the cockmouth, easily digging her digit knuckle-deep with little drag through soft and warm, blue-pink cumthroat.

The cold-blooded widow knew where this led from here, refusing to be bothered with awaiting instructions and taking command of the interaction, pressing her hips into the dickfingering while her left hand came to clutch the Talon scientist's chin between thumb and index. The two tall women met in the middle, both leaning their heads forward to mash bloated, pillowy, blue-ish puckers against cherry blossom, lean lips. Their smooch lasted a breath before opening their maws to take each other's tongue, locking the corners of their mouths against their lips and sucking and tonguing and swapping, Amélie gyrating her hips and flexing her maleness to nurse on O'Deorain's digit, her free right hand flicking the hem of Moira's robe out of her way to snake inside and grope between their air-tight, muscle-stacked buns, combing through the dense, orange-red hair surrounding her sepia-dark, palm-width, wrinkled coinslot.

Bidden by instinct, a small part of Moira became surprised that she had not noticed when she joined her middle finger to index in stroking knuckle-deep through Widowmaker's cumthroat. But what was this revelation before the aphroditic plaything spitting in her throat. Her mind demanded more and so her flesh obeyed, shoving her face firmer against the resolutely intrusive Talon sniper, wanting their touch deeper inside her, to be sucked dry of her spit and shit, to be licked glistening all over, to be filled from colon to molar with Lacroix's body. Lacroix's nectars and cream, their tongue in her stomach, up her guts, their feet in her throat, soles stroking her womb, their pussy slop drizzled over her tongue and toes. Their cock.

Amélie's muscles vacuumed powerfully against Moira's kiss, unwittingly assisted during the geneticist's turn to wrestle her pink muscle past the assassin's teeth and dock into their throat, lactating saliva into their mouth and pushing her spit into their neck. Slate blue and creamy-pale cheeks concaved deeply between upper and lower teeth as Lacroix yanked and swallowed a throat-filling load of gummy-thick snot straight from Moira's nose, the doctor's already carnal-soaked nerves igniting white-hot, goosebumping her skin, quickening her heart beat as her body shuddered, her cock vampirically draining heaps of burning blood into her broad, left-curving length. Widowmaker's delicate hold on O'Deorain's chin swept away, slapping onto the back of the short-haired Irishwoman's scalp, finally drawing their stumbling, robed form to connect with her jacketed body and tearing another fist-big ball of chewable mucus through their mouth and down her stomach. Moira's maleness had already reached full erection, her 'T'-shaped vein engorging with even more red magma, fattening to fill her girth bursting with need, painfully throbbing deep at the core of her root, pineapple-turgid prostate sobbing for pleasure.

The sniper's fingers curled into Moira's hair, pulling their skull to break their deep tongue kissing, four substantial strings of spit still connected between their cocksuckers, the evidence left of them impregnating one another's belly with spit from their throat-hilted tonguing. The purple-skinned woman's uncaring expression refused to change, while the normally intense-gazed and aloof doctor wore heart-struck fuck-mess across her strong-featured face. They stood this way for a long moment staring at each other, Widowmaker analyzing O'Deorain's body language, Moira sincerely admiring Lacroix before her, guzzling the details of what she wanted and had been done to her and what was happening, crossing her cockfucking, clawed fingers and fervently penetrating the massive schlong swallowing her digits to the knuckle, of a mind to shove her fist inside the brainwashed killer, heart thrilled at the imagined sensation of their sleeve-stretched, spongy, thick glans mashed against the inside of her elbow. Amélie, forearm-deep inside her doctor's normally crushing-sealed ass cleavage, maintained dragging her fingers through their booty's red jungle, constantly intensifying the clockwise rubbing and prodding against Moira's shitring, feeling the wood-shearing-tight muscle pucker to kiss and beckon Lacroix into their scorching depths.

Olivia Colomar didn't dare touch herself. After the thorough beatdown her cock and balls endured, Widowmaker left her two-foot-long erection edged for the next three days, the 'Y'-shaped, branched vein hugging the left side of the ex-gangster's four-inch-wide girth endlessly pulsing thickly with fiery blood, her swollen, throbbing and steaming length still pliant from the coring-deep sex, loose cockmouth drooling an unbroken ribbon of pre that grew a small puddle between Sombra's sneakers, gawking at Amélie's authoritative manners. Less than half an hour of cockfucking worked her balls up to being weighed down by two months-worth of backed-up spunk; yet it was just last night that she fucked her fist twice to her secret Zaryanova feed, wringing out two vigorous, scorching loads that left her nuts and cock tender.

As much as she wanted to touch herself, however. Without signal, spoken or gestured, Widowmaker widened her stance as Moira simultaneously fell to a low squat, perched on the balls of her feet, her double-pendulum-like nutsack dangling close to the metal floor, brushing back and forth over the arches of her feet, enormous, pale booty cheeks enveloping the heels they sat on. Sombra's mouth nearly watered when her violet eyes locked onto the oxygen-starved, smooth watermelon testicles swaying at Lacroix's knees, the two cumbersome jizztanks, for a moment, squishing back and forth past one another in their low-sagging purse. At most, she allowed her hands to press palm-flat against the tops of her thighs, accenting her leaking maleness, her aching balls daring her to snatch both fists against her length and pump out her viscous ropes of boiling protein.

Dr. O'Deorain maintained eye contact on her way to lip-level with Amélie's stud-tamer, lingering a breath on their golden oculars, her left hand leaving the underside of the sniper's massive teste and causing them to jostle, her long-nailed grasp rising to clutch upon the base of their maleness, not even her fingers capable of reaching a full circle around Lacroix's immensely girthy steak. Bringing her gaze upon the endowment filling her hands, Moira extracted her fingers from the few inches of pisserpussy, twisting her cockhead-squeezing fist six times, blowing a heated exhale through clenched teeth over the four-foot-lengthed, chilled, heavy beast. Like lightning, her futilely stimulating grip shoved forward to meet her twin, leaving Widowmaker's slathered knob exposed to Moira's ravenous gullet, nearly chomping down on the pinkish-blue glans and immediately worshiping her. Though the redhead's skull leaned back, her lips stretched to secure O'Deorain's mouth over her bull lover's tip, a sucking, nursing, cream-skinned nozzle extended over seven inches of solid width, caught against the robust flare of Amélie's thick cap.

Moira's tongue scraped and lashed over the taut, bell-shaped flesh, peeling Amélie's cumslit open by one side to drag her taste buds over the vulnerable pink, licking up against the loose skin underneath, curving her muscle behind their flare and massaging the quasi-gill-like, bumpy texture, basting her hot spit over the smooth knob, then slurping and sucking and licking Lacroix squeaky-clean. Widowmaker studied her lover's greedy, vacuum mouth, feeling them slurping and messying their cock tip with saliva, anticipating the moment Moira would gobble down her now masculine-seasoned mouthpre. Lacroix audibly exhaled through her nostrils and Moira felt the powerful rush of liquid launch through the base of her pronounced cockbelly, parting their lips off the purplish glans and stretching their mouth wide-open to the gum, catching the water-bottle-fat stream of coffee-black piss. Olivia's cock bounced strongly, tossing some of her continuous ribbon of pre.

The Talon geneticist presented her mouth as a urinal briefly, filling her cheeks with the salty and tangy liquid waste, the fluid raucously dunking into a growing pool before opening her throat to let it wash down into her stomach like a vortex, closing her mouth around Amélie's knob again and sucking down the dispensed, dark liquid. Her lips resumed tugging on the fattened glans, Moira's tongue blasted with acrid flavors as she worked her throat to extract what was already being hosed through her face, audibly gulping air-filled, cheek-bloating swallows, her jaw opening more despite the triple-large girth filling her, pulling the violently rushing river of hot drink into her maw and chomping up when she consumed. More piss. More piss. O'Deorain wanted every drop inside her. More piss. Widowmaker seemed to have a horse god's bladder, urinating with the same strength for over a minute. More piss. More piss. Soon, still a condom for roaring, piping-hot, over-toasted lemonade, the air bubbles were no more, Moira seamlessly creating a direct duct of Lacroix pissmuscle and her throat. Her well-toned belly beginning to round out, Amélie's pissing losing no strength. More.

Moira began yummy-humming between swallows, her gravid abdomen still growing into a nine-month-pregnant sphere. Ten-month. Twelve-month. Twenty-month. Pressing against the doctor's pre-gushing, throbbing, thick cock, now noisily thrumming with the sound of liquid upending into a deep barrel whenever O'Deorain's throat tugged another beam of piss into her gut. Amélie's hands reached out to palm the Talon member's scalp, casually pulling them in with flexed biceps. She speared her massive tumescence through Moira's well-oiled skull and neck, their pried-open, python-mimic lips gliding over steel-solid flesh, spreading slightly wider for her thick vein, pressing tight against her still dick-clutching fists, jaw practically unhinged for Widowmaker's love to easily inject their stomach; their neck opened more, stretching against the contours of a massive cumvein loud with flowing piss, sheathing past their collarbone, sucked and wrung down the doctor's throat for her flared cockhead to pop into their ballooned insides, blasting directly into the yet-to-be-digested lake of sour & sweet café.

The waterfall of charred, amber urine finally came to a pause, Widowmaker's inner workings pushing out another throat-bloating stream of raging-hot piss for a few seconds, then pausing again before the next, shorter, and shorter, and final spit of acidic, cockwaste. As Amélie's hands fell away to rest at her sides once more, Moira sucked intensely against her girth, dragging their impaled skull back, vacuuming lips extended eight inches away from their nose and chin, leaving a shiny gloss behind for the indoor light to help highlight Lacroix's inch-thick vein jutting from her base and ending some fifth of the way from her bellend's cap.

Dr. O'Deorain's belly sloshed and glorped, rising in thunderous force after her nozzle-like lips caught on Amélie's knob and threw her head forward, yanking back, and shoving her neck into the assassin, pulling, slamming, again, sucking, blowing, smoking, swallowing her lover's engorged, deadly-large, solid member. "M'rk!" The geneticist choked down the massive cock. "Mmmmm. M'rk! Mmmmm, m'rk, mmmmm, m'rk, mmmmm, m'rk!" Humming like a car engine, vibrating her appreciation completely through Widowmaker's girth, still gazing up as she tugged away, wringing her throat to squeeze the deep-stomached length, scraping her tongue over their smooth cockbelly. "Mmmmm", then ravenously gobbling down to her vice-locked fingers, "m'rk!" Stomach gurgling and farting to finally take in and absorb Amélie's liquid.

"Hmmm~! Hmmm~! Hmmm~! HMMm~! HMMm~!" Moira's clawed fingers peeled away from Amélie's strong, huge cock, slapping onto their enormous booty to heft and knead and squeeze the muscle-stacked, industrial-sized cheeks, more silently, more passionately deepthroating their entire weighty maleness, punching the violet girth into the sluggishly dissolving vat of opaque piss, their swollen glans knocking into her stomach wall. "HMMm~! HMMm~! HMMm~! HMMm~!" Moira's pulsing, aching girth vomiting a three-foot rope of marker-swollen cockhoney between Widowmaker's dominating heels. "HMMMMH~! HMMMMH~! HMMMMH~!" The Talon doctor bashing her stretched, vaccumed mouth against smooth, resolute pelvis with the audible squish of wet lips and fucked-open throat, disappearing forty-eight inches of virile anatomy past her heart; then sucking away, rocketing off the thickness of two forearms, leaning her head to the right as she furiously nursed at the tip, and smoking back down to the base while dipping to the left.

The creamy, tall woman fell silent, only the sound of dully roiling, splashing piss and tacky, squeaking spit across a four-foot-deep swallow and blow, her brow becoming angry and worried. Until a final slam, holstering Amélie's tool, tip to base, inside herself, her sharp eyebrows mashing the pale flesh between them, incisors and molars biting against the unbothered assassin's unyielding, big cock. O'Deorain's honeydew-obese testicles drew up against her hairy pussy, boiling with her rowdy cargo, dropping to sliding down her ankle and steam against her foot before leaping straight up twice more. Jettisoning, tar-viscous sludge noisily spurt up her stems, shouldering out her cockbelly pregnant, thickly raging up her two-and-a-half-foot length to spew forth, spiraling a two-inch-fat cord of pearly, ballsludge inferno to arch over her spent pre, paying due tribute at the feet of her goddess.

The fat, chewable rope of throat-clogging, salty and savory, hot nut launched far past Amélie's platformed toes, the violent strength of Moira's ejaculate wobbling her cock and flinging her swollen cum ribbons in a zig-zag, yet Widowmaker's stance remained stone-still and unstained. Twenty feet of continuous, glue-y, molten jizz. Thirty feet before finally tapering to sling a twin. A triplet. Eight identical ropes of white-hot spunk cleanly flying acrossing a rough yard's distance before pissing onto the metal floor. A nineth, slightly shorter rope. A tenth. "Nnnmmmh. Nnnmmmh." Her minutes-long climax winding down, sputtering her thirteenth cord of thick, syrupy, gooey cum. The tendons in her body tugging on her cock to spit a fourteenth, eleven-inch-long ribbon, ending her total issuance.

Moira's nostrils loudly blast exhales onto Lacroix's patient body, having maintained eye contact with the big-haired killer throughout her time at their girth. Having caught some of her breath, the muscles in her cocksleeved jaw slacked, oxygen-starved flesh snapping off of the teeth that sunk against Amélie as the geneticist pulled away gently, leaving bite marks. Her neck and mouth traveled the distance of cock, until the assassin's glans scraped over Moira's uvula, the thought to be finished with Lacroix's cock erased by the impulse desire to suckle on the jaw-splitting knob, clamping her mouth back down on the massive bell-shape. This was the doctor's thanks, if the emotionless sniper could be bothered with appreciation.

O'Deorain played with their tip, mashing the spongy organ against her palate, firmly swiping the tip of her tongue against the bulbous flesh on either side beneath their cumslit, mock chewing. She was not finished when she popped the head-big glans free, finally breaking gazes to look upon the spit-glistened, taut knob. Moira's head leaned to the right, sucking her mouth onto half of Widowmaker's tip, nursing on the tender sex, digging her bottom lip into their pisshole. Again she popped her lips away, leaning to the left and smoking vigorously on their meat with caved cheeks, suddenly falling away from sucking and simply dragging her flat tongue over the expansive, curving cap. She pulled away, back to staring down at their knob for a blink before opening her toothy maw and pressing her tongue forward, shaking her head side-to-side to wiggle her pink muscle through Amélie's glans, shoving inches inside until her lips could lock upon the glossed helmet, moaning sultrily once as she tongue kissed.

Lacroix returned the affection, tensing and pulsing her muscles, flexing her cock to suck on Moira's tongue, pressing and tugging her hips back in short, firm, slow swings, swallowing up her doctor's spit, pressing more of her carnal mass into their stretched mouth. North of two minutes elapsed before Moira broke away, two fat strings of spit connecting her smirking, thin lips to the weighty length she just cleaned of Sombra's slick cockhoney.

The fog of lust over the scientist's mind lessened, calmly calling to mind why she called Amélie to her stable. She turned her head to the fully-geared Talon agents watching over the six coffins, sliding her long-fingered hands off of Widowmaker's massive booty. "Take the foals to Stable Two."

Quickly, ignoring the aroused, very large bulges squishing around their cockpieces, the compound guards' boots thumped across the purple plating, each effortlessly hauling a foal underarm and leaving the way they arrived.

Moira's neck craned as her subordinates took their leave, post-climax-drunk, sapphire and ruby eyes returning to behold the cold, yet benevolent, golden gaze of an aphroditic adonis, leaning her head forward to stroke her chin and cheek over the still BULL-fueled cock jutting massively out of Amélie's crotch, catching her slack, upper lip on the extra thick glans to be peeled away up from her teeth, resting the side of her chin and ear against the mighty length.

".. I want to show you what are in the coffins, Amélie."


	2. Chapter 2

Sombra idled patiently, stepping to the side of the globs and specks and splatters and trails and puddles of ivory, steaming, batter-thick nut that settled on the distance between her and where Widowmaker stood, shrinking that space to better appreciate the finer details of her violet friend's strong, double-fecund body, the way Amélie wobbled, stepped, smelled. Fucked.

Breathing through her mouth, excited; arms straight with closed fists pressed together upon her removed robe, the substantial fabric padding the plated floor for her spread knees, toes splayed and shoved against the makeshift bedding. Moira O'Deorain's brow worried above wide eyes, looking over her shoulder at Widowmaker's endless legs on either side of her arched, tough waist, her gargantuan, cream-pale booty cheeks alternate wobbling back and forth, her racing, confused heart and cock-starved, aching body rising in temperature, blowing thick but short-lived gusts of smoke off her densely-unshaven, dark-lipped womanhood, a thumb-fat rope of clear nectar sluggishly stretching off her pussy and over her saggy, heavy, big nuts. It was simply her thrumming libido causing her ass to move, muscles pulling and blood rocketing through her stacked figure to shake the fat of her spank-me globes. The geneticist scaled her heterochromic oculars up to Amélie's BULL-tempered cock, four-feet of low-oxygen length, solidly seven-inches-thick at their widest point. "I want you in me, Lacroix.. Split me open." Her smoky voice slathered with unshakable, carnal craving.

The cold-blooded assassin's jacket dropped onto her doctor's pleading face, sliding down their unflinching, upward gaze until the Irishwoman snatched the inside of the collar between their bared teeth, one, grape-color-clawed hand rising to palm the garment against their nose. Moira hadn't relaxed her craned neck, keeping her eyes locked on Widowmaker's hugely engorged, wombcracking maleness as she dragged a pervertedly deep inhale of their already odor-drenched coat. "UUHLll." The geneticist burped her fiery piss breath into the finely crafted clothing, the size of her distended abdomen having tightened some since gorging herself on the Talon sniper's dark urine, still sloshing and gurgling from sudden movement and digestion.

Amélie folded forward, left forearm gliding along her intensely fertile thigh to press her fingers against the flat-ish top of her steel-punching cock. The sharpshooter's knees bent, lowering her bulbous, helmet of a cockhead barely an inch away from Moira's curving spine, her fingers pressing firmer to angle further back, the taut, bluish, fat glans hugging into the exaggerated shelf of the pale-skinned otaku's queen-fed ass, dragging through the parted valley of their deep crack, the friction of their tanned shitter's wrinkles each slowing Widowmaker's descent. The doctor's silky, low-pitched, needy tone spoke dirtily, surrounded by exhales throbbing pregnant with lust. "You're so big."

Still, Widowmaker's knees continued to bend ever so slowly, guiding her girthsome endowment across O'Deorain's sensitive meat. Her plump tip pulled across the wide, brown pucker, down to Moira's beefy, darkened pussy lips, sopping with thicker-than-syrup bitchspit that dampened the dense rug crowding their ensemble, roaring heat and burning against Lacroix's knob; the geneticist could bake cookies with the blankets of invisible fire gushing from between her cheeks. There, Lacroix's knees froze, her hand leaving her cock as her hips nudged downward, keeping her immense length aligned to her begging lover's drenched, slickened pink. "Amélie.. It's so thick. Stir up my pussy; I can feel my honey oozing off my sack. Mix me up, Amélie." The leather jacket she held between her pearly whites dropped loose to fall over her still seated fist, bunching up when her raised hand returned to her all-fours position.

The unfeeling, violet killer brought her left hand upon the doctor, holding a fistful of their short, orange-red hair. "Mmnnh~." Moira moaned against her sucked and bit on bottom lip, not from her gripped hair; Widowmaker agonized her with the gentle pressure the assassin shoved against her from above, sadistically drawing out the impending joining of huge cock and shallow pussy. Moira's own body aided Lacroix, the sheer thickness of her coring-big schlong too solid to ease into their melted-sugar-runny cunt, the seven-inch-girthed sledge beginning to bend near the middle of her pumped-veined measure. O'Deorain's heart raced, sapphire and ruby eyes wide and unblinking, short, quick breaths flashing through her drool-glossed lips, futilely straining her neck to see the massive cock poking between her ass and its apathetic owner teasing her piping-hot, salivating, bulging pussy. "Amélie~!.. Pour into me~. Break me opeeen."

Viscous bitch nectar and cockhoney drizzled non-stop from Moira's womanhood and thirty-incher, glazing her almost hydrophobic robe with thick, see-through glue and both her sexual funks. The second her muscles pulsed, messaged by their creamy-pale master to push her thunder-fat booty back against Lacroix, mentally screaming to have her sealed cunt tore open by the stud goddess above her, Widowmaker's right hand struck down, creating an inches-deep crater against the geneticist's giant ass cheek for a blink, strong and fatty Irishwoman flesh rippling from the impact. The assassin's firm spank latched her hand onto O'Deorain, seizing an overflowing fistful of ass and keeping the needy, tall redhead from making even a millimeter's gain on being penetrated.

"UUGHph!" Masochistic frustration leapt from between Moira's lips, so utterly under the brainwashed sniper's control. "Please tear me up, Lacroix!" Her shitring tasted more air, the oxygen-starved Frenchwoman's ass-filled grip spreading their doctor's cheeks wider apart but patiently maintaining the torturous edging to filling their neglected pussy, their violet, monster schlong crooking more still, curving to the left while the taut, shiny glans became coated in feminine juices. "Puncture my pussyyyy~! Split me open with your cock."

Sputtering, adhesive pussy sap displaced from Moira's insides, her throat sealing up as her jaw hung open and jut forward, thirteen inches of Amélie Lacroix digging into her tender, hydraulic-press-tight insides, O'Deorain's furious brow squinting her eyes while Widowmaker's heavy member cleaved beefy-dark, fat labia. Thicc ropes of bitchspit hurled from the wringing pinkness, crashing into the nooks of Amélie's scrotum, knocking against and gently jostling her lead-like testicles, gluing over the top of her bloated cock, squirting to join the growing pool on the fabric below the copulating women, sinking another double-digit of her girth inside Moira. "Uuuuuhh~." Guttural, mind-melting satisfaction issued from the doctor's choked neck. Thirty-five inches of Amélie shouldered into O'Deorain like the ass-end of a sinking cargo ship pulled into ocean depths, propelling robust ribbons of molasses-thick nectar. The pale scientist's right hand jolted behind her, flat palm and splayed, long-nailed fingers pressing against her purplish lover's wasp-wide hip. "Deep~."

There, the cold-blooded assassin's hips stopped, muscles unflexing from driving her turgid length further inside Moira's high-strung pussy, nestling her bulbous tip in the sensitive crevice around their womb's donut-fat mouth. She released the locks of orange-red from between her curled fingers and the fold of fatty sphere in her fist, Widowmaker gripping Moira's halting hand by the wrist and pressing their arm against their back, reaching for their grounded hand and twisting its wrist to join their sister, denying her lover any further physical protest.

The Talon councilwoman felt poured into and accommodating to the overstuffing, deliciously thick cock reaching into her ache, her core squeezed within a cyclop's palm to make her shudder with joy. Locking their arms together in one hand, Lacroix handled Moira's torso, twisting them to grant the geneticist the view they wanted, her callous, golden gaze meeting their cherry garnet and icy cobalt, cock-pleased agony, a gentle palm hooking against the front of the doctor's flared hip.

Amélie's hips rotated, tugging her extra large length out of Dr. O'Deorain, pulling free more ribbons of their nectar, knees unbending as she rose with the tacky extraction of her huge cock. Moira remained silent, her face a chaotic, moving painting of being carnally fulfilled, having a middle-deep ache gripped and wrung of its ripe juice for the first time. Widowmaker's drawback lasted forever, yet she paced evenly, firmly, her immense width molding her shape against Moira's sleeved pussy, an inch of pink walls dragging out past her dark lips. And thirty-so inches later, Moira feeling hollowed out even with the protruding gut of hot urine, Amélie's core-knocking, flared tip scraping toward the mouth of their womanhood, bent her knees, swinging down and in, plunging her sledge back inside, friction-blasting O'Deorain's heated nerves, dipping into and unsettling their silky, oozing depths, her pushed-out cumbelly sliding full-speed against Moira's blushing, swollen clit.

The music of penetration played undisturbed, slick, hot pussy slinging and drooling its thick, clear juice, sputtering, tacky, swallowing; Moira O'Deorain only breathed as her core shook under constant assault, space shuttle rockets of melted-down, purified, smithed-by-Hephaestus, breeding-stank lust doubled their way up the doctor's body, exploding against her mind, blossoming a bone-melting heat that radiated across her form, grasping her heart in a single, demonic hand and spearing the muscle on condensed, heavens-reaching need.

Amélie filled out, churned, and distended her doctor's sloppy, molten pussy, thrusting shy of three-feet-deep into their twisting, spasming folds, both women's creamy and violet, sagging nuts wobbling and slicing through the air, Lacroix's girthy pair collecting ropes of cunt sap that grew cumbersome until finally drooling off her smooth, tight sack, then towing her wall-crashing length out of the slurping pinkness just as her cockhead threatened to pop out, only to dunk back inside their guts. She constantly overstepped, purposely thrusting, onto the line between deep and too deep, bullying Moira's core, their fuck-waterlogged brain, with the terror of overwhelming her already wracked libido, every single plunge into O'Deorain's soaked cunny threading the needle, oh-so close, dangerously brushing near the point of too far.

Cock drawing out of pussy, tossing fuck-musky heat. Girth forcing noisy deepthroats into spurting babyshitter, voided of hot, cunt-reeking clouds. Sombra's maleness pissed a yard-long cord of pre, showered endlessly by the volcanic eruption of invisible need, the similar but distinct, tyrannical stenches of the two hung women bleeding into each other and solidifying, fucking up her nostrils and furiously stroking her throbbing, two-foot-length erection, previously gaped prostate sharply aching to be fed, to be stroked, punched, sucked. The arching wad of cockhoney flew cleanly over Widowmaker's massive ass cheeks, landing harmlessly near the first of the six, huge Talon coffins; the Mexican hacker grit her teeth with an open mouth, maintaining, with effort, her silence alongside the mating, merging, sniper and geneticist, heart aglow to their singing. This, too, Amélie controlled, abusing O'Deorain's reddened womanhood and flinging their cock-starved warmth to inflame Colomar's rigid girth, daring the ex-gangster to touch herself, having fucked her balls into a turbulent state, an arousal that wouldn't calm for fifty hours.

Nectar-messy, long-stroked squishing. Heavy length pulling on loud, thick spurts. Angling and twisting of merciless, deep-reaching, core-splitting girth hollowing Moira with squeaks of her bitchspit being smashed against. Her aching sex, raging fuck drive felt as though she could nut soon, Widowmaker masterfully, sinisterly, walking Moira's orgasm in place; where there only a breath's distance to the edge, the sight, the smell, heat of release thrumming from the blissful pit before her, the cool Talon assassin beat O'Deorain's body into going somewhere she wasn't. Not without the say-so of the extra massive cock knowing her insides.

Lacroix shoved herself in her doctor, extracting herself from their burning depths, pouring through Moira more than they could accept, tugging out more than she thrust.

*PLAP*

Dr. O'Deorain's blissfully tormented expression turned to fear, fatty and stacked, pale udders jiggling up and down. Pelvis clapped against wide, globe-y, pale booty and massive, low-sagging nuts noisily collided into heavy spunktanks, Amélie plunged the remainder of her x-tuple-big cock much too deep, thrusting her engorged, smoothed glans to ride around the tender flesh surrounding the cream-skinned Irishwoman's womb, curving a not-insignificant portion of her endowment in the sensitive bowels of Moira's syrupy-drowned pussy, occupying their entirety. "HSSSSSSS!" The lean-faced redhead sucked in air through clenched teeth. While Widowmaker had not delayed a beat in her coring, dragging her thick maleness nearly all the way out of Moira's emptied womanhood, sinking back through the lively, messy flesh in a familiar motion. *PLAP* The weighty, overbearing orbs hanging in the sack stretched off the base of the assassin's length knocked into the doctor's massively burdensome pair with lethal intent, concurrently hugging, firmly kissing their spherical lovers in every moment the purple, thunder-fat schlong punched into O'Deorain, womb-bombing shockwaves bouncing their alabastrine, gelatinous knockers.

Moira's body shuddered strongly, quaking her from middle to limb, still catching what would have been moans and only pinching out heated exhales, neck tensing every fiber to bulge in detail against the skin of her long throat. "Amélie." She whined, her battered clit caught between the monumental bodies, Lacroix's ship-shearing girth and car-wrecking testes further blistering the nerve-bare, throbbing pearl. *PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP*

The oxygen-starved Frenchwoman stared back at her lover, unmoved, closed and slack mouth, deadpan, working her hips at deadly, rutting strength and speed for four feet of hip-displacing swell. *PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP* Their concert peaked, the vibrations and heat mixing to grip and fondle Sombra's cock, balls, and pussy, the faintest sensation of her skulls-swallowing ass being groped again by Amélie's touch. *PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP* "Ay~."

Thrust, pull, plunge, tug, dig, smash, yank, fuck, fuck. *PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP* Moira's mouth fell open, walking miles to get two steps closer, the intense promise of release stirring into a hurricane, sucking her by the tits, her cock, her balls toward its center yet kept at bay by a stronger element. "Lacroix.. Daddy~. Split me in half, daddy." *PLAP PLAP* "Make me your bitch!"

Simultaneously, Amélie leaned forward, pressing her gargantuan titties firm against O'Deorain's strong, supple back, spilling the slate blue tittymeat out to the sides. Her neck crooked and her bimbo-plump cocksuckers parted to lock against her doctor's hung-open gullet directly after the period in their begging. The same dance of her invasive and grossly intimate tongue kissing, swallowing each other's spit, slipping their tongue into the other's throat, hugging their pink muscles together, sucking on flesh and teeth, cheeks hollowing between molars. And again, Amélie stole out another double-fist-sized glob of Moira's snot to consume in the acids of her belly. *PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP*

The final plunge and she stopped. The Talon sniper buried her BULL-solid length fully inside Moira's cock-bloated pussy, tearfully throating her from end to end, a heaping push rocking the two women's bodies forward, sealed tight against one another, colossal cumorbs and double-loaded, fist-eclipsing testes flattening against each other for a frame, held together, pressed, loving each other through sheer weight and the glue of copious, swollen, gooey cunthoney bolts.

The geneticist moaned in mixture of joy and frustration into Lacroix's sucking and thrusting mouth, fiery breath roaring, vomiting from the abyss of climax, blasting across her face and through her hair. The purple widow circled her hips, literally stirring and mixing up Moira's tenderized, blood-gorged pussy, walking her obedient nerves closer to the edge and no further, her own gigantic ass cheeks wobbling, so thick with muscle, so massively round, even as wide as her thighs spread to sheath herself inside O'Deorain, her dumper cleavage pressed together sunlessly tight. Moira screamed full-lunged into their deep kissing, still obediently and desperately reciprocating the assassin's commanding lovemaking.

Amélie kept their bodies hugged for minutes, completely docked to the hilt in her doctor and continuing to brush her girth against their wringing cunny, emptying nearly two quarts of saliva fucked into the back of Moira's throat and guzzling down the same from them, sucking the roiling heat from the doctor's cum-bloated, butter-churned balls into her dwarfing, bull-shaming twins.

Every core-deep shudder the creamy, tall woman's body spasmed, the rapidly digesting barrelful of piss gurgled and splashed in her stomach.

The tongue kiss was first to break as Lacroix unbent her knees, if only because her tongue wasn't four-feet-long. The face-locked exchange gently, abruptly, fell away, an engorged string joining their bottom lips. The same slurping, duct-tape-peeling extraction sang with Widowmaker's leaving; as molten-hot and needy as Moira's body became, her pussy closed fast behind Lacroix's even and slow pullout, the pink, stretchy flesh kissing the fat, lengthy mass farewell. Only the grace of absolute silence allowed Amélie, Sombra, and Moira to hear the final note, the bluish, plump glans, thickly coated in bitchhoney, soon to be drizzling off her, softly dragged free of O'Deorain's heart-beat-pulsing, steaming pussy, the vice-like, beefy-thick, dark lips hugging together at long last, audibly pressing out their natural lube. The obese string of nectar attached between the sledge and sleeve breaking under its own weight.

The sharp-eyed, afro-haired woman returned to her towering posture, her still bitchspit-glazing cock saturated with BULL serum, the crystal-clear juice zig-zagging onto Moira's still submissively accentuated ass and lower back. The geneticist shed tears, so achingly on the edge in such soul-moving ecstasy, afraid to move lest she disturb her lover's powerfully executed bullying. Now free, her hands gingerly returned to below her, feeling the custom-tailored jacket and collecting it, pressing the blackened animal hide against her expansive, pale jugs.

Amélie's sultry, bass-y, French accent called down to Moira. "Show me these coffins, docteur."


	3. Chapter 3

In one hand, Amélie Lacroix held two, nonexistent leather straps, fastened to phantom chains made of thick iron. One leash lead behind the brainwashed woman, shackled keyless to Sombra's pelvis.

Though having activated her camouflage the moment Widowmaker pulled their obscenely enormous cock free of spurting, clinging, blushing pussy, Sombra's huge, GG-cup-endowed, bursting-fecund-hipped physique remained fully clothed: fingerless-gloved hands adorned with sharp, electric blue nails, long-sleeved, skin-tight bodysuit majorly absent of cloth down near-entirety of her torso, ending in stirrup stockings hooked against her cream-caramel soles, bright, baby blue, dagger-tipped toenails stark against her deep bronze skin inside glass-transparent running shoes. Her loosely braided, shoulder-blade-length, cobalt mohawk hung over the high collar of her custom-made, black leather jacket, partly obscuring the piercing, amethyst eyes of her portrait, its violet-painted lips stretched thin around the wombsplitting, bluish tumescence swallowed into her neck and grasping one of the immense balls below, bordered by a circle of capital letters making 'WIDOWMAKER' and 'SOMBRA'.

Her dark, twenty-four-inch-long, four-inch-girthy maleness kept scorching-to-the-touch, achingly throbbing, solid, curving just slightly upward for her lord and goddess, Amélie Lacroix.

The other chain followed Moira O'Deorain.

Leading her fellow Talon members, the geneticist slowly walked toward the large, matte obsidian coffins, each footfall measured as she regained her composure and held her nerves under her own sway, the high-octane mixture of adrenaline and lust burning up her limbs and heart and pussy, her violent sperm sloshing in direly-loaded, weighed down testicles. Her eyes and thin lips smiled with a fluffy feeling, running her long fingers and their long, grape-colored nails across the custom leather jacket hugging her shoulders, arms crossed. Purposely designed too small to zip up, allowing Moira's round and pronounced, arm-overflowing RR-cup milkers to showcase their small, cherry blossom-pink areola and thumb-thick, inch-long nipples. The rest of the Irishwoman's creamy-pale skin remained bare to ogling eyes, long, smooth, Egyptian-toed feet, well-formed arches and nude nails at the end of far-reaching, smooth, and strong legs. Though Olivia dwarfed her derriere, O'Deorain's hips and ass fattened enormously still, stacking muscle and fat in her giant, double-globe booty cheeks, extra fertile thighs swelling out richly, curving inward at her relatively lean but powerfully toned waist.

Accounting for the welcomed abuse her cunny endured from the conditioned sniper, Moira's two-and-a-half-foot-lengthed, five-inch-swollen cock couldn't stop bobbing and pulsing. Definitively curved to her left, her needy maleness strongly sliced upward with every desert-parched gulp of crimson magma, roaring steam that joined smoke-thick clouds puffing off her heart-beat-rhythmic pussy to rise over her hairy pelvis, crawl against her muscled abs and dissipate against the massive underside of her breasts. O'Deorain's prostate ached sharply, her pineapple-fat knot throbbing, kept edged by the echoes of the purple assassin's belly-deep pounding, the geneticist's ovaries having eagerly launched desperately ripe, plump eggs, pleading for Amélie's, and only Amélie's, thick, double-pronged, spiral-tipped seed.

Calm. Straight back, relaxed but robust muscles. Towering from fifteen-inch-platformed nineteen-inch-tall, strapless, ice-clear heels, to seven-inches-around of curled, sphere-formed, purple-tinged onyx afro. Endless-long legs. Smooth, hairless, slate blue-choked skin taut over healthy fat and stacks over stacks of muscle, swelling her enormously prolific thighs, gargantuan globe for each buttock to form her light-swallowing, skull-obliterating crack, obscuring the wok-wide, copiously-wrinkled, dark purple dumper star between. Powerful yet slim core sat atop her wasp-shaming hips, hammer-denting abdomen and muscle-corded back gracefully supporting the ZZZ-cup mammaries, massive areola nearly as wide as her udders' fatty thickness and capped by wrist-plump, three-inch-protruding teats, milkers ensemble jutting forward visually weightless, proudly obstructing the pure white, bitchnecter and cockhoney-drenched robe from closing around her, freely exhibiting her monstrously monumental jugs, their cleavage just as body-crushing and shadowed as their ass.

Widowmaker's bodysuit remained fast against her supremely aphroditic form, the neck-long choker's cloth reaching down her back to split in two over the industrial shelf of violet giga-ass, falling down over the sides of mountain-range-thicc hips and blowing out to encompass the span of her spider-long legs just above the knee. The black fabric ended in stirrup stockings, hooking under the smooth, healthy arch of her lilac soles, the soft undersides held impossibly resolute to their respective queen stripper heels, leaving her round, impeccable heels exposed, painfully beautiful, long feet and lean, Roman toes flawless and free, gloss-coated, Russian violet-painted, wide toenails catching beams of light from overhead.

Lacroix's mere presence guided and governed the others, the dominating aura of a doll. Six-nines-fine eyes took in the artisanal detail of her gift from Sombra, slowly following Moira; the babies-gravid minotaur males and their extraordinary, equine cocks, the exact, colossal proportions of Olivia's ass cheeks and Amélie's fearsomely thick length, the contrast of their soles and palms to the shade of their skin.

Dr. O'Deorain stopped, turning to face Amélie, clawed hands gripped against the zippers of their jacket and anxiously running her closed palms up and down the teeth. She stood aligned with the gap between first and second coffin, allowing the violet murderer to halt directly in front of the first coffin; the white robe resting on the Frenchwoman's shoulders lift "by itself" at the back, returning just two seconds later to drape over Lacroix's derriere, the contour of a much larger booty outlining the fluid-splattered, white article. The assassin didn't bat an eye, seemingly abruptly bending her knees and bringing her palms forth to press on top of them, her air-tight, heavy cheeks parting for an invisible, four-inch-thick shaft.

"Qué tal." Sombra spoke under her breath, assuring her grip on Widowmaker with her arms resting over the top of their stacked ass and gripping oxygen-choked hips in each hand, riding the harsh friction of a foot's depth in vice-like cleavage, reaching the head-enveloping wrinkles of dark purple turdcutter and easily gaining purchase inside, the pliant ring opening for the Mexican woman's length and swallowing them into Amélie's hot colon. What Moira meaned to show them couldn't remain on Colomar's mind with her well-fucked cock and testes ringing church bells across her brain, raining the same tons-weight instruments over her stubbornly resolute yet deliciously quaked core. She just wanted a taste, she promised herself she wouldn't spoil her built-up nut; and she absolutely wouldn't while using Lacroix's fine-tuned body.

Her pelvis, hips, and belly hugged against the Talon sniper's giant ass, her two-foot-erect maleness half sheathed in butt crack, half gripped inside the cold-blooded, towering doll's guts, feeling the threatening, awesome and daunting girth of their durian-massive prostate pressing their glans, snapping their nerves closer to climax. Olivia's throbbing length, aching, clenching and rubbing deep in her root, the center of her glowing, thicc nut ring, splurting three quick but still swollen and long ropes of pre up her violet friend's shitter. Sombra began perspiring minutely, carefully guiding herself into Widowmaker's gloriously deep dumper, tiptoeing around her own orgasm, reveling so well in the inferno of carnal rage, her body demanding, screaming into the void to fire her thick, quadruple-churned ejaculate, needing to seed a plump and big womb.

Lacroix, eyes fixed on the floating coffin before her, clearly prepared to hear what Moira stood eager to announce, held the smaller, caramel-skinned woman's hand through teasing their urges, Colomar so fixated on gently fucking Amélie's muscular cinch not to realize she wasn't just opening her colon for use, flexing her ring, smashing her enormous stud knot against the bronze intruder, widening her assmeat to allow Sombra as deep as they could thrust, sliding effortlessly through slick intestines, what little natural drag eroding with more flinging and spitting ribbons of cockhoney. Then sucking, wringing, constricting their draw out, Amélie nudging her friend closer to release, coaxing them to step forward where they had stepped back from, over and over, being softly fucked so casually. "Ay~.. Quiero estar profundo, Amélie."

Allowing herself a minor distraction before the reveal, Dr. O'Deorain raised her right arm, opening the palm of her hand to cup under and squeeze one of Widowmaker's expansive, eye-filling jugs; just a few seconds of appreciating their mass, thrillingly without sag and soft between pinching digits. The blue-skinned Frenchwoman paid the brief molesting no mind, patiently awaiting the opening of the triple-sized Talon coffin.

Moira turned her head to the human-tall case, uttering bass-y silk. "Giorraíonn beirt bothar." The matte, smooth surface parted down the middle, exactly like Lacroix's "bed", issuing a small hiss to release the pressurized containment. As the two panels slid evenly to the sides, calm, smoky fog rose out, disturbed by the outside air. For about half a second.

The impenetrable cloud thrust forward, reaching out to Amélie, thrusting forward again, dashing against her powerful abs, forced out to the sides as more smoke blew against her, quickly filling inside Moira's robe. Olivia still made love to Amélie's moon-crushing booty, unconcerned with the burning-house-hot-and-thick fog crashing over her. The Mexican hacker yanked a full lung inhale, filling her nostrils bloated and drenching her lungs with the condensed and refined odors of cock, pussy, ass; every stench specific to one person she was entirely familiar with, tearing her eyelids open as she struck her hips forward, heart split in two, balls weighed down with day-long whisked and folded spunk struggling to drag up against her cock, heaving too-thick sperm, only capable of rocketing a minute-long cord of crystal-clear dickspit inside Lacroix's guts. Sombra clawed to stay on the edge, although her mixed up ballsludge would remain seated in her girthy orbs, clutching harder against the purple sniper and gritting her teeth between parted lips.

The substantial steam snaked up between Amélie's milkers, easily invited up her nose and rooting into her lungs, spreading like a weed within her chest. Still squatting her thunder ass, she simply rolled the strong miasma on the back of her tongue, watching as a right hand and left hand emerged from the low-vision fog to leverage on the edges of the parted lid. Double-full, purple-tinged, onyx hair surfaced from the still beating smoke, slicked back and draped down the peach-flesh-skinned woman's waist. She looked up at the emotionless Lacroix, proud, dainty chin, bee-stung cocksuckers, petite and pointed nose. Gorgeous and golden, apathetic eyes met Amélie's.

She rose further, revealing her upper body from the ocean of fog. The same missile-shaped, ZZZ-cup breasts, heaving and slightly wobbling from quickened breath, the steam rising off her shoulders more engorged and violent around her breasts, pulsing off her left knocker like a heart beat. Tattooed on the massive mammaries in thick, Unifraktur Maguntia text, 'AL' on top of her right titty and '01' on top of the left. She stood at the edge of the coffin, straightened posture, looking down at Widwomaker, then her unfeeling oculars beginning to slowly bounce between her original and her creator. No shred of cloth adorned Amélie's mimicked form, her absurdly fecund shape, imposing stature and towering skeleton exactly the same; only their, obviously, unaltered heartbeat and straight hair the difference between copy and goddess.

Lacroix's precious-colored eyes fell to where O'Deorain's long-nailed hand intended to reach, obviously the subject at the fore of the Irishwoman's mind. The creamy, long fingers wrapped securely around the base of the clone's maleness. "Her heart rate is increased permanently; both surgically and chemically. The forty-gallon bags behind the capsule were filled with my BULL serum; she and her sisters have been fed enough of the liquid that their bodies now produce it, raising their libidos to a level that would drive a human rabidly insane." The husky, Irish accent happily lectured.

"It is a testament to my work that she doesn't pin us to the floor and breed us for a week straight." Moira stroked the contraption in her grasping palm slightly. Smooth, with hexagonal lines printed inside the clear "attire", AL-1's cock and watermelon-large balls jut from her smooth, pale pelvis in a six-inch-long restraint. Other than a slit at the tip of the cage, the copy's cock sat utterly confined, her saggy ballsack held, too, inside the chastity, squeezing her massive nuts absolutely taut against what little thin flesh remained "free", held up, past, and separated by the six-inch, transparent sleeve cinched where root erupted from pelvis. A smirk grew on Moira's wide, trim lips. "The cages won't come off unless you or I remove them with a tongue print, and they'll never be put back on. As they are, visibly, extremely and perpetually aroused by their constant BULL secretions, their cocks will fill out to their true size and never calm."

The bare-footed, emotionless mimic stepped down, her cage ensemble still held in her doctor's hand, now having to look up at Amélie. "And each possesses a switch: telling them their code will change their eye color, red signifying that they will ejaculate if they reach orgasm, and they will impregnate you, as I've made their cum frighteningly potent enough to bless a litter unto any creature. But when their eyes are gold, they will remain backed up, their spunk fermenting and increasing, and thickening." The geneticist dragging a mildly shuddered breath, squeezing the chastity cage once. "In theory, their bodies will remain virile, erect, even in death, for the span of one hundred, sixty-eight hours."

Audibly taxed inhales and exhales blew over the small of Widowmaker's back, Sombra righting herself in the saddle, still plunged up her uncaring friend's shitter, better acclimated, although still assaulted, to the pungent, sweet and buttery, sticky musk slamming its balls against the bronze woman's nostrils. She remained where Widowmaker left: space-rocket-high lust mere steps away from bliss; with the addition of twirling every which way, feeling as though she could remain in cum denial limbo or haphazardly cannoned into the whirlpool of nut, thanks to the stinky, nosefucking body heat flooding her skull with sensations of Amélie's cock and balls and unnervingly needy pussy.

"Their wombs as well." The Talon councilwoman continued. "With their breeding code activated, their blood-red cunts will never dry up. More specifically; in just over thirty days from fertilization, they'll birth a fully-developed, thirty-year-old Lacroix duplicate, just as hung and desperate for love as their fecund daddies." Moira stepped in closer to her obedient experiment, her fondling grip releasing to adjust and snatch hold of one of AL-1's testicles, her free hand gripping the back of the clone's neck and breathing heavily against their cheek, squeezing the cum-stuffed sphere harder, the thicc meat bulging between her fingers, curling so deep against the tender flesh that her digits nearly vanished into ball. "They're just durable as our Amélie, as well. Don't be afraid to strike their delicates with a sledgehammer, if it please you. They'll bounce right back for more~."

The pale-skinned clone didn't even wince, breathing evenly and remaining upright despite Moira's fingers meeting at the middle, bathing unbothered in her original's dominant gaze; it only stirred their swimmers to thrash harder, only guzzled more blood into her cock to war against its implacable restraint. Yet she cared not. If Moira and Amélie wished her to remain celibate, hellishly needy for decades, until her last breath, it would be so.

"How big are they?" Slightly breathy, Mexican accent inquired. Sombra's stealth flickered off as she moved from around Lacroix, carelessly letting her maleness drag out of their cornspitter and maneuvering to their left side, one arm sweeping the white robe flap out of her way. Her phantom body aglow with magenta before fully uncloaking her scantily clad self, thick, proudly solid cock still pulsing as if to beckon the now staring AL-1. Moira's eyes narrowed above her smirk, overjoyed someone finally asked.

The lecturing, silken, low tone continued while Widowmaker's stance returned to straightened. "Once their cage is removed," The moment Amélie's hand rose to palm the side of her mirror's cheek, sliding down to hold their beautiful chin on the joint of her index, another peach-flesh hand reached out of the smoke, leveraging on the parted lid. Joined by its sister, since the other half of the lid was already grasped by a third hand, the top edge of the coffin hooked against by that hand's sister. "it will only take no more than a handful of seconds for their cock to surge to full strength. Her girth measuring nine-inches-through and maximum erection hardening at seventy-two inches."

"And do I get my own?" The cocky voice followed hot at the end of Moira's sentence, quick to assure them she understood why the doctor specified they and Amélie have control of their cock cages. "I promise, no Mexican-French chicas will flood your precious lab." All while she covertly tapped a purple-hued interface before her bright-nailed hand, aimed at AL-1's sleeve; just to look.

Lacroix and her clone leaned in, hot and cold locking eyes, unflinching and crooking their necks slightly right, their bubble-bimbo-plump lips falling open, sealing against each other for the thunderdome of tongue kisses. Both ferocious, both commanding, generous. Nasty. Their powerful muscles hugging as air-tight as their lips, taste buds sliding, dragging over one another, twisting under each other, collecting and sucking up the spit slathering across their gums and teeth, salivating fresh spit to oil their throat fucking, pressing and pulling their mouth pre together, shoving deep down their necks. Their mouths stretched, vacuuming inches from their nose and chin, noisily guzzling and throats visibly flexing and locomoting to handle the floods of spit sucked and forced down between the twins' bellies, their faces as far from each other as before the intimate handshake yet their mashed-together lips resembling violet and pale, fleshy duck bills.

The two identical clones AL-1 shared the coffin with emerged, the sweltering fog inside slowly dissipating now that they separately exuded their visible, ramped up body heat, cartoon characters that finished powering up and now roared with white, hungry flames, the same, transparent, large chastity sleeves cruelly locked over their forcibly limp cocks and tugged, squeezed-forward and kept apart, batter-distended balls. The one to Amélie's left, their right jug tattooed 'AL' and their left titty '03'; the clone to her right bore '02' on their heart-smoking milker. Widowmaker's delicate touch upon AL-1's chin flew away, both her open hands reaching to either side and palming the additional duplicates' scalps. The oxygen-starved assassin drew them in as much as they stepped into her and AL-1, knowing a dance they had never danced.

AL-2 and 3 pressed their equally full, peach pink cocksuckers against the locked tongue kissing, purple and pale, six-inch-long mouths smacking open, the four's movement mechanical and coordinated, pressing their eight, thick puckers together for a four-way tongue kiss, swapping across each other's mouths, probing deep between one another's teeth, leaving little visibility of their passion to the naked eye, let alone open air. The suffocating abundance of titflesh rubbed and frotted and interlocked, Lacroix's pussy-soaked, pure-steel member pressing against AL-1's belly and slipping onto their side, painting clear bitch nectar across their chiseled abdomen and resting against their oblique.

Their fluid swapping played brief, all at once kissing off from each other, all three still locking gaze with Amélie. A gurgle interrupted the silence, Moira's urine-drunk belly now only slightly rounded, leaving just a few steins of Lacroix's tart juices for her to absorb. "How much do they cum?" Widowmaker's husky, expensive, cold timbre called to O'Deorain without looking at them.

Sombra answered immediately, still canopied by Widowmaker and Moira's robe, her intrusive hacking still targeting AL-1's locked up penis. "Five HUNdred liters?!"

Dr. O'Deorain chuckled throatily, glancing at the direction the nosy Talon agent spoke from, obscured by her white clothing and the absurdly fertile shapes of her Lacroix clones. "They're meant for my horses, of course." Her idle, open hands reached out and low to fondle AL-3's booty, hefting the triple-stacked, robust globes, long nailed digit sliding in and down and out of their deep, shut crack, pumping her hips in short thrusts to fuck nothing, obeying her goddess's echos of sexual domination by not wrapping her sadistic fingers around the necks of two duplicates and slamming them face-down on the metal plating to spend her seed in and on them a dozen times. The redhead's lips pulled away from clenched teeth in a momentary snarl expression, relaxing back to closed but the tendons in her jaw flexing against her strong, lean contour. "Their supply is endless." The geneticist's words dripped with lust.

Widowmaker bent her knees again, fluidly releasing her lava-weeping clones' manes to grip AL-1's fat, skin-pale nipples in two harsh fists, her momentum slicing her cock downward, hips rotating and shoving as her member returned to level, only to slap meatily against cage sleeved cock and beefy, plump pussy, yanking the copy back in against her violet body, spreading their deep cleavage open and riding pliant, thicc womanhood over her broad, slicked girth. Her mean, sultry-bassed tone ripped the veil away from Moira's motives. "Vous n'avez pas apporté dix-huit poupées avec de telles caractéristiques uniquement pour vos chevaux, mon amoureux." Her killer, golden glare turned to fall upon the doctor.

O'Deorain's cream-pale cheeks blushed crimson, a sudden rise in her heart beat slackening her jaw to breathe quick and heavy, her plans laid flesh-bare, roughly handled by the neck, hair, and back of her knees without Amélie's four-armed touch. ".. A--.. I.." Her heavy balls heaved once, mightily, in their low sack, loudly gooping their viscous cargo, her needy, crooked length tugged by internal tendons before hosing a two-inch-swollen, yards-long rope of gummy pre over the massive, dumptruck booty of AL-3, drizzling and criss-crossing the gluey lube all over the wide and pronounced shelf of peach-white monster ass, fat, crystal-clear ribbon drawn against and across the mimic's air-tight shit canyon.

Returning her fearsome, cold eyes over to her piping-hot duplicate, Lacroix issued her orders to her Talon superior. "Release the next two coffins for you and Sombra."


End file.
